


Something Ends, Something Begins

by kaijusizefeels



Series: Something Ends, Something Begins [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Ending, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Despite Geralt and Emhyr, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, It Will Become a Happy Ending, M/M, The Witcher 3 Spoilers, Yes that one - Freeform, they are both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: Geralt watched Ciri walk into the light, aiming to defeat the White Frost. He waited and waited, but Ciri never appeared again.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Something Ends, Something Begins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915156
Comments: 27
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've only seen the Netflix show and played Witcher 3. I know there is A LOT of background information that I don't have about the character. I can't say that I really get Geralt since I'm writing him as the character that I played in the Witcher 3, so there may be some departures from canon. Namely, I used the [younger Geralt mod](https://www.nexusmods.com/witcher3/mods/951) so he'd look more in line with the Netflix version at about late 30s to early 40s. How he looked in [my game.](https://mykaijusizefeels.tumblr.com/post/623038342662078464/gamegeralt-is-so-damned-hot-too-ugh-i-need-to)
> 
> I got the 'Bad' ending on my first playthrough. I was so distraught that I thought about starting a new game because I really wanted the Empress Ciri ending. But the more I thought about it, the more I begin to love the 'Bad' ending. And now it is the only ending I accept as my headcanon. This is the first story in a series of five fics. 
> 
> If anyone is interested, I would love a beta or just someone to bounce ideas with. I can beta as well.

“I have to do this!”

Those were the last words Ciri spoke to him. He watched her walk into the light, aiming to defeat the White Frost. He waited and waited, but Ciri never appeared again.

Avallac’h, too, had conveniently disappeared, or else Geralt would have skewed him through with his sword.

Yennefer was inconsolable. She had not believed him when he told her what had happened. The stinging slap she gave him made it clear that it was not all just a nightmare.

The short-lived Conjunction had laid Undvik to waste. There were corpses everywhere, Nilfgaardians, Skelligians, nationalities didn’t matter. 

Geralt was sorry for not being able to see to Crach an Craite’s final journey, but he had to leave Skellige as soon as possible. 

It. Was. All. Too. Much. 

He could not risk the possibility of the Emperor detaining him to learn more about Ciri’s final fate. Geralt has one last task to do.

He would swim across the Great Sea if he has to.

Fortunately, Geralt stumbled onto a pirate ship trying to escape from the havoc ravaging Undvik. He paid for his passage with all the crowns he has on him. To combat his exhaustion, he took as much Swallow as his body can tolerate until the veins on his face pulsed with his heartbeat, and his vision wavered at the edge. He must have looked like a ghoul because the pirates left him alone the entire trip.

As soon as he set foot on land, Geralt traded in the master-crafted Nilfgaardian armor Emhyr had given him for a decent steed and a cheap replacement and set out for Crookbag Bog. The merchant had been all too ready to rip off a Witcher. But it didn’t matter to Geralt, not anymore.

* * *

Heavy fog covered much of the swamp. Geralt left a swarth of corpses in his wake as he went down the Trail of Treats to the Crones’ hut. He felt a bit of regret for killing a werewolf, who begged, with his last breath, for Geralt to save three cubs in a den closeby. In killing one, the Witcher might have condemned three innocents to death. 

Geralt did not harbor any illusion that a fight with Weavess, the last surviving Crone, will be an easy one. 

“I sense your pain. I see your fear,” the hideous creature taunted. Flies and maggots crawled out of the cavities on her face. “The prophecy do not lie. You can not survive this struggle. Zireal is dead. Naught but a small frozen corpse in an icy wilderness. And you are afraid... you feel fear...”

Geralt stared off into the distance, still thinking about the three cubs somewhere out there. But to her, he said, “You lie. I don’t feel a thing anymore.”

It was not a fair fight. Weavess stayed back as she directed swarms of drowners and water hags at Geralt. His shoddy armor provided little protection from their claws. Their sheer number meant that they were able to surround him more often than not.

Geralt cut them down one by one until he got a chance to swing his silver blade against Weavess. Like the werewolf foretold, backed into a corner, Weavess fought like a wolverine. She shrieked as she lashed out at him with poison-drenched claws; the maggots and flies buzzed in swarms between her every move. Geralt drank from a bottle of Tawny Oil whenever she disintegrated into a flock of ravens to dodge away.

Until finally, one strong blow across her back knocked her down. Weavess, devourer of countless children, the last of the daughters of She-Who-Knows, got up and scampered away from him like a scared rat. Her taunts gave away to alarmed cries.

Geralt struck his silver sword deep into the soft marsh and unsheathed the steel blade from his back. With a yell, the blade sailed unerringly through the air straight through her torso. 

Weavess collapsed to the ground. She gibbered as Geralt approached silently, silver sword in hand. 

But the Crone did not plan to die quietly. “You will soon join your Zireal!” She hollered and spewed globs of green poison at him. 

The poison splattered over Geralt even as his blade sliced clean through her neck.

“Shit”

Weavess’ corpse quickly liquified in a putrid puddle giving off even more noxious fumes. Geralt chocked and staggered away into the crones’ hut, ignoring how his vision has started to waver.

He had to find the medallion, Ciri’s medallion!

Geralt tore through the clay potteries sitting on the shelves, heedless of the pile of shards growing at his feet. When he finally found the wolf head medallion, he heard the shrieks and growls from an even larger army of necrophages rising from the swamp to converge at the hut. Geralt swayed in exhaustion or maybe from Weavess’ poison. He was so tired, enough that the only thing he looked forward to now is to finally be able to lay down and sleep.

Yet Vesemir’s training had been so ingrained that Geralt shifted to the perfect defensive stance when the first nekker came through the door. His silver sword cleaved through its torso in one slash.

More followed, surging through the door like a flood through a broken dam.

Geralt has little room to pirouette and dodge in the small interior. A claw tore through his cuirass; sharp fangs sank into his shoulder; dark circles danced across his vision. Perhaps the Crone’s last words would prove themselves true.

At the first taste of the Witcher’s blood, the beasts went wild. They clamored for more, biting and dismembering each other in a frenzy.

Geralt fought his way out of the hut only to collapse a few feet away from blood loss. The Witcher swore as he prepared for his messy end and gripped tighter onto the medallion. The last thing he heard was a horn blasting through the fetid air.

* * *

The ground shook as a phalanx of Nilfgaardian soldiers charged through the swamp, brandishing silver-tipped spears and swords.

General Morvran Voorhis, astride his armored mount, led the attack. 

The rush of troops eventually managed to scatter the necrophages back into the swamp though the price was much higher than Morvran had anticipated. Everywhere he looked, he saw bodies of the dead and the dying. He was thankful that the Emperor had insisted that he take a full centuria. 

Morvran approached the fallen Witcher, easily missed amongst the dead had it not been for his white hair, though most of it was now drenched in blood. He turned him over and balked at the sight of the man’s pale face covered in pulsating black veins. The Witcher’s breath was barely discernible. 

The general realized with alarm that Geralt has more than one foot inside Death's door already.

He rose to call over a healer only for the half-dead Witcher to grab his wrist. “Cubs... den out by the ford. Save them,” the man gasped before collapsing in a faint.

They heaved the Witcher onto the back of a cart and departed quickly, with no time to properly bury the dead though Morvran did send out a group of scouts to the ford. They returned with three barely weaned wolf pups. 

The Emperor of the North and South wanted to see Geralt of Rivia at Vizima Palace. Morvran dared not dawdle and risk bringing a corpse instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments. They are much appreciated, especially right now :D 
> 
> Did anyone else think that Morvran was interested in Geralt in the game? LOL he just seemed too nice to him or something. He's not going to get a chance in this series because he's afraid of Emhyr but maybe in something else...

The troops’ hurried speed made for a very bumpy ride as Geralt weaved in and out of consciousness in a fever. He could not keep down any food nor liquid. The healers fought a constant battle trying to keep his many wounds from festering. “Will he live?” Morvran asked one of them as he looked worriedly down at the delirious Witcher. The woman’s noncommittal answer did not inspire confidence. At least they should reach Vizima by noon tomorrow.

Morvran had heard about the emperor’s disastrous naval campaign out in Undvik. However, the ridiculousness of some of the accounts made him question their validity--a second Conjugation, cyclops and monsters dropping from the sky, preposterous!

No matter what happened exactly, Geralt had been at the center of it all. Morvran heard that he was the last person to have seen Princess Cirilla, who had since disappeared once again.

A cough jerked Geralt out of his unconsciousness. He turned to his side and heaved up nothing except for liquid bile. Ignoring the mess, Morvran raised a gauntleted hand and brushed aside the sweat-soaked hair covering the Witcher’s face as the healers mumbled amongst themselves.

“For both our sake, stay alive, White Wolf.” 

* * *

Morvran, along with the comatose Witcher, was shown unceremoniously into the emperor’s study. To his relief, the emperor seemed unsurprised by the Witcher’s poor state though he looked confused at the presence of the three wolf cubs, dangling from the hands of Morvran’s attendants.

“The Witcher beseeched me to save them,” Morvran explained. 

The Emperor nodded. “Take them to the kennel master,” he told his chamberlain, then he asked the healers that Morvran commanded on their treatment of the Witcher. 

These learned healers, men and women educated at the best imperial medical school in Nilfgaard, grew increasingly pale as a deep frown overtook the emperor’s visage during their explanation. 

“The Witcher is not human,“ he told them. 

Emhyr then called for his personal physician and summarily dismissed everyone.

* * *

Geralt tasted the familiar bitterness of Golden Oriole on the back of his tongue and swallowed reflexively. The potion burned all the way down his throat and into his veins. His body shook and spasmed with the effect of Weavess' poison slowly being displaced by another. Strong hands pushed his shoulders back down onto the bed. 

Soft sheets, not moving, Geralt gathered that he was no longer on that damned cart.

"Ciri?" 

He eventually managed to peel open an eye, blinked, and watched his blurry vision coalesce into the face of the last person he wished to see — the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Ciri's father. A downturned mouth was all Geralt saw before another wave of pain made black dots dance in front of his eyes, but it spared him from seeing Emhyr’s devastation once he learned of Geralt’s sin.

* * *

The physician, who somehow knew more about Witcher physiology than most, continued to regularly force foul-tasting medicine into Geralt despite his wish to be left alone. Still too weak to even think about getting out of bed, the only thing Geralt could do was to stare at the ceiling when Emhyr walked into his room. For a man who was practically the ruler of an entire continent, he did not look very happy. “Witcher, what are you doing?”

He looked pointedly at the tray of food that Geralt had left untouched by his bedside.

Geralt glared back at him.

What he did not expect was for the emperor to grab a chair and sat down next to him. Geralt must still be delirious because what followed was even more unbelievable.

Emhyr var Emreis, _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ , raised a spoon full of porridge to Geralt’s mouth. He was so shocked that he gave no resistance when Emhyr passed the serving between his lips. 

A bouquet of flavors— honey, sesame, raisins, almonds, and even pomegranate— exploded on Geralt’s taste buds.

It was so good, though Emhyr must have misinterpreted his stunned expression. “There are simpler means to kill you than through koliva,” he muttered. Then he picked up another spoonful and bought it to Geralt’s lips and then again until the entire bowl was empty.

Just eating was too much exertion, and Geralt felt his body settle heavily back onto the mattress, or maybe Emhyr did poison the tasty porridge after all.

He sank back into oblivion.

* * *

Geralt’s nose twitched at the scent of nuts and honey as he slowly surfaced to awareness. Another tray, laden with food, sat by his bedside the same as before. 

The emperor sat by a window, perusing through a thick stack of documents. He dipped his quill into an inkwell every so often like a metronome. “I trust that you will not require my assistance this time to feed yourself,” Emhyr said without looking up.

Geralt rolled his eyes. 

Despite his stomach’s protests of a lack of nourishments, Geralt had little appetite. Instead, he reached for the cup of steaming tea — Nilfgaardians served their tea black with only a hint of bergamot. But his hands shook unsteadily when he tried to raise the cup and saucer to his mouth. The scalding liquid sloshed precariously close to the cup’s rim.

Immediately, Emhyr’s large hand appeared and stilled the rattling porcelain. He helped Geralt’s hands guide the cup and saucer to complete their movement.

“Thanks.” Geralt mumbled after his swallow, grateful that he had lost the ability to blush a long time ago. 

With Emhyr this close, he couldn’t help but breathe in the scent of the man. The cologne that he must have used in the morning had faded, leaving only traces of sandalwood and vetiver on his skin. Mostly Emhyr smelled clean, like someone used to frequent baths. He didn’t smell of anger or impatience.

But Geralt decided that he couldn’t deal with Emhyr’s solicitude anymore. “What does his imperial majesty want? Are you waiting for me to get better so you can drag me out for a public execution?”

Emhyr’s brows knitted together, but he said nothing.

“I failed,” Geralt said. He leaned forward so that his hair fell over his face.

“Ciri is dead,” he scrubbed a hand over his face, finally managing to say the words aloud. “Yeah, it should have been me.”

“No, Geralt, she is not. Cirilla lives.”


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt blinked and blinked again. Emhyr’s face remained the same as ever— solid granite. 

“When you are done with your self-flagellation, come and see me in my office. I will explain then.” The emperor revealed his hand and then left.

Geralt frowned but reached for the bowl of koliva and shoved a spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

* * *

Even with regular meals and the physician’s treatments, it still took Geralt a week before he can walk about in his room without collapsing. He would have pushed himself harder except the servants Emhyr assigned to him cried out in alarm every time he so much as staggered in their presence. Geralt was tired of making people disappointed in him these days.

But the moment he was able to walk across the room without swaying, Geralt flung the door open and stepped across the threshold.

Vizima Palace looked much the same as it did before, except the banners now had a blue field of silver Temerian lilies in addition to the white Nilfgaardian sun. Thaler had been right —The Silver Lilies will bloom beneath the rays of the Great Sun.

Guards stood at attention along the halls, but since no one tried to stop him, Geralt figured that he was not walking anywhere he shouldn’t. He followed his memory of the last time he was here to make his way to Emhyr’s office.

No one stopped him when he reached for the door so Geralt presumed that the emperor was alone and shoved it open.

He wasn’t.

* * *

Emhyr’s chamberlain gave Geralt a severe frown at the interruption. “Sir Geralt of Rivia,” he announced needlessly. Then he hissed in Geralt’s direction, “bow!”

“There is no need, Sir Geralt is still recuperating. Mererid, we will finish our discussion tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

The chamberlain lowered his head and retreated. He left with another dagger-filled glare at Geralt.

As soon as the door closed, Emhyr said. “It is not a wise idea to make an enemy of Mererid.”

Geralt simply crossed his arms in response. “Talk.”

The emperor rose slowly from his chair. He walked over to a cellaret and poured out two glasses of Amarone from a decanter. He handed one to Geralt.

“Perhaps some of my actions these past few months have been puzzling to you,” he begans. “For example, how did I know that Cirilla was back when you did not? Why did I send you, a lone Witcher, after her?”

“You told me that it was because she trusted me,” Geralt said as he made himself comfortable in one of the chairs.

Emhyr quirked an eyebrow but made no mention that he did not give permission for Geralt to sit down. Instead, he continued, “yes, that is a reason. She trusts you. But no matter how resourceful you are, you can hardly cover the same amount of ground as my army. And did you wonder why I let you go back to Kaer Morhen without a banner at your back? Why I acquiesced to your nonsensical objection to General Voorhis’ command?”

It had surprised Geralt that Emhyr gave in so easily. “I thought you cared more about your war than Ciri’s fate,” he told the emperor honesty.

Emhyr snorted, a decidedly unregal sound. “Yes, there was a time in my life when you might have been right. But —“ he peered into his wine as if the words can be found at the bottom of the glass. “I have achieved even more than I thought possible. More land and wealth than I could use in my life, more power than any mortal should have. Cirilla is my blood, yet her love, the one thing I should have had without waging a single battle, is not in my possession."

"I would have given you command of my entire army if I thought it would help. If I was not instructed to do otherwise.”

The emperor walked over to a bookshelf and removed an ornate box hidden in a secret compartment behind a section of weighty tomes. He took a key from the small chain he wore at his waist and pressed it through the keyhole.

Geralt’s medallion vibrated on his chest. The entire box and opening process were spelled. He did not doubt that anyone else who tried to open the box other than Emhyr would receive a grisly end.

Emhyr took out a piece of paper and handed it to Geralt. He took it gently in both hands. The aged parchment rustled and crinkled in his hold. Although the ink has begun to fade with age, Ciri’s elegant cursive script was unmistakable.

“I received a series of missives three months before I called upon your service. These letters have been protected and preserved in the vault of the oldest bank on the Continent for hundreds of years. A set of conditions had to be fulfilled before I was given possession of them. They all contain explicit instructions that no one should read them save for me except this one, the last of them, was also intended for you.”

Geralt took a deep breath and started reading.

 _Papa,_ the letter began.

He had to stop when shock overwhelmed him. Could this really be from Ciri? To begin a letter with a title that she has never bestowed upon the emperor before. After a moment, Geralt calmed enough to bring his eyes back to the writing again.

_Papa,_

_You must send a centuria to the swamp of Velen two months after the Autumnal equinox in the Year of the Shrew to save Geralt from the last of the crones. The men need to be equipped with silver swords or silver-tipped lances, for she commands a host of dangerous monsters._

_Geralt will think that I have perished in my fight with the White Frost. You can show him this letter to convince him otherwise._

The last part of the letter was addressed to him directly and simply said.

_Geralt, I am alive. I need time to prepare._

Geralt read and re-read the entire thing. Finally, he looked up at Emhyr in shock. “How? Why?”

The Emperor shrugged. “You know yourself that Cirilla has Elder blood flowing through her veins. She is the Lady of Space and Time. As for the why, you know her best. I can not begin to fathom her reason.”

“We must find her. Ciri could be in danger!” Geralt made to stand but suddenly felt light-headed and had to sit down again.

“I suspect that it is not so much a question of where but when. Cirilla does not wish to be found. Without the Wild Hunt to lead us, even the Lodge of Sorceresses would be hard-pressed to track her down her. She gave us these messages for a reason. Though I wonder why she sent me to save you instead of one of your friends,” Emhyr muttered.

* * *

The emperor leaned over to check Geralt’s bandages and satisfied himself that the Witcher did not manage to pull out any stitches.

“So what now?” Geralt asked, simply because he needed to fill the silence between them.

Emhyr straightened. 

“This was the last of the letters. But you are not a prisoner here, Geralt. If you feel sufficiently recovered, you may return to your Path. However, if you need more time, then you are welcome to stay. Your chambers are yours for as long as you need them. I —“ 

Here the emperor hesitated. Geralt had a feeling that this was not a state of being the man next to him had experienced for many years. 

But Emhyr only paused momentarily before he pressed on. “You can see from the way the letter was addressed that Cirilla was writing from a future where we enjoy a much closer relationship than what we have currently; she made that abundantly clear during your brief visit here when I asked her to succeed me as the Empress of Nilfgaard. If she were to appear now, I would have no idea as to how to reach this ideal future.” 

“Geralt, I would like for you to stay and tell me more about Cirilla. I have not known her for many years. She is a stranger to me.”

In as many minutes, Geralt felt as if Emhyr had swept his legs from under him for a second time.

He was still reeling from the revelation that Ciri was not only alive but had chosen to inform Emhyr of that instead of him, never mind the fact that an itinerant Witcher was much harder to get ahold of than an Emperor. Geralt felt that he needed more time to figure out what to do next. 

More importantly, he loved Ciri, and that love owed her the chance to forge relationships with other people, especially with her father.

Emhyr’s eyes stared intently into his as he waited for the Witcher’s response. 

Geralt nodded, though without much enthusiasm.

If Emhyr was relieved, he did not show it overtly, but Geralt thought he saw a slight lift of the corner of the emperor’s mouth. In the meantime, he might as well get some enjoyment out of this.

“First of all, Ciri hates being called Cirilla.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very disappointed that we didn't get any support from Emhyr for the Battle of Kaer Morhen so I had to make up a reason for it. In my mind, Emhyr gave Geralt the master-crafted Nilgaardian armor set and gears for Roach.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt had scoffed at Emhyr’s warning about not crossing the chamberlain, but he quickly realized that the emperor had been right. Mererid, directly or indirectly, was involved in every aspect of Geralt’s life while he stayed at the palace: his food and drink, his baths, his clothes, his beddings.

It was no concern to Geralt if Mererid poisoned his meals or even his bathwater. With potions and his mutations, Geralt was immune to diseases and most poisons. But the chamberlain found a more insidious and effective way of torturing him— through his clothes.

Geralt could hardly recuperate while walking around Vizima Palace in full armor. He asked for loose dress robes, similar to what he wore in Skellige. But Mererid had tutted the idea and instead gave Geralt doublets, like the one he received before, except somehow more form-fitting and with more ruffs.

He complained about the ruffs to Emhyr because they itched like crazy.

“I’m afraid that palace dress code is the sole purview of the imperial chamberlain,” Emhyr said evenly, though Geralt was sure that the man was laughing at him on the inside.

“I don’t see you wearing ruffs.” Geralt gestured to Emhyr’s usual attire, a comfortable looking doublet worn underneath a long black gambeson. If one ignored the golden Chain of Office around Emhyr’s neck and that the rich and detailed embroideries on his sleeves were weaved with real gold and silver threads and set with gemstones, one might conclude that the Nilfgaard emperor’s garb was understated.

“Ruffs are fashion choices of the young.”

“I’m not a young man.” 

“But you _look_ like one to Mererid.” Emhyr gestured to Geralt’s currently clean-shaven face; living in the palace meant regular baths and visits to the barber, so maybe Geralt can see his point.

“Or perhaps he just wants to torture you. Your move, Geralt.“ Emhyr used Geralt’s distraction to his advantage and quickly netted an entire group of Geralt’s stones. The game of Go had become a sort of regular past time for both of them; naturally, Emhyr played black while Geralt played white. 

There was only so much to discuss about Ciri between the two of them, at least things that Geralt felt comfortable sharing without her permission. Emhyr then asked about the Witcher trials. 

Geralt’s initial reaction was not to tell him anything, but he realized that any need for secrecy was a reflexive reaction. Vesemir was gone, and Kaer Morhen was in shambles. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert scattered into the world, though he hoped to come across his brothers again someday. The School of the Wolf will die with them; even the Emperor of Nilfgaard cannot change that. He told Emhyr about the trials, his childhood, and the fights that almost cost him his life.

And since Emhyr asked him to share things, t was only fair that Geralt asked Emhyr about his life, the politics and machinations of court, and his own struggles to survive. 

Perhaps it was because they had always thought the worst of each other before, but neither felt the need to give sanitized versions of the things they have done. And because of that, they found it unexpectedly effortless to talk to one another. 

* * *

Geralt was not surprised to find that Emhyr liked to win.

One evening, after three glasses of good Amarone, and happy from his close victory over Geralt in Go, Emhyr was more relaxed than usual. He bought up Radovid’s death for the first time.

“I have not thanked you yet. Commander Roche told me of the instrumental role you played in Radovid’s removal.”

“You saved my life. It is sufficient.” 

“Ciri saved your life. I was merely the agent who carried out her instructions.” 

Geralt shrugged. He does not like to think about how he had meddled in a clearly political affair. Vesemir would have boxed his ears for throwing neutrality so far onto the wayside. But Vesemir was gone, and Geralt had never had enough sense to leave things alone.

He still didn’t have the good sense to leave when Emhyr asked in a wine-soft, husky voice, “How would you like me to thank you? Another stallion, perhaps?”

It was the wine, the lighting, the rasp of fabric across his skin. It was anything but reason that made Geralt mumble while he stared at the curve of Emhyr’s lips in sharp contrast to the cut of his cheekbones. “A stallion of a different sort.”

The game board and stones clattered to the ground when the Emperor rushed across the table and dragged Geralt out of his chair to press him against a wall. He slotted his lips against the Witcher’s; it was less of kiss and more of a clash, waged across a battlefield shared between their breaths.

Manicured hands tore impatiently at Geralt’s doublet. “I shall have to speak with Merereid,” Emhyr mumbled when the long line of small buttons and hooks on the doublet impeded his intent. 

Like any good strategist, though, he simply switched tactics. Emhyr found that it was much easier to undo the ties on the Witcher’s hose and pull the entire thing down with one yank, and much more satisfying to grab ahold of the Witcher’s half-hard cock.

Geralt gave a half-choked gasp of surprise.

The emperor was pleased to discover that the Witcher can be undone as easily as any man. Geralt was very sensitive, or maybe it had been a very long time since he was touched like this. 

Emhyr licked his palm slowly and watched Geralt’s pupils dilate until the irises became thin gold rings. It only took a few strokes up and down his shaft before the Witcher hardened completely and started dribbling precum. 

Geralt groaned softly. 

Emhyr wasn’t at all gentle, but his lack of hesitation was a big turn on for the witcher. His palm was warm and broad around Geralt and felt perfect. The Emperor’s hand wasn’t soft —Emhyr didn’t believe in ruling by decrees from a throne— but it wasn’t covered in sword callouses like Geralt’s. It was the hand of a ruler whose arsenals included the commands of other men.

Geralt wanted to return the favor and reached under Emhyr’s gambeson. His hand brushed against a shapely bulge. Emhyr was hard.

The Witcher freed the impressive erection and slid his calloused palm up and down the throbbing member. Geralt made sure to trace the sensitive head with the callous on his thumb because he knew from experience how good that felt.

“Geralt.” 

The silver-haired man wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a plea. 

Geralt wondered if holding the dick of the ruler of the most influential empire in the known world made him the most powerful individual on the Continent right now. But Emhyr reminded him that he had him at a similar disadvantage when he squeezed Geralt’s balls with his other hand. He swallowed Geralt’s protest by bringing both of their erection next to each other into one grip, using his spit and Geralt’s precum as lubrication.

“Shit.” They cursed at the same time. 

Geralt thrust tentatively against Emhyr in that vice of a grip. He dropped his head onto an expensively embroidered shoulder, suddenly dizzy with the scent of the emperor’s musk. The witcher reached blindly to join his hand with Emhyr’s.

They settled into a pleasurable rhythm eventually by alternating their gripes to rub the shafts against one another.

“Oh, damn.” Geralt found himself at the cusp. He tried to hold off because Emhyr showed no sign that he was also near the edge.

Somehow, the dark-haired man was able to read his thoughts.

“Come for me, Witcher,” Emhyr whispered and dragged his lips along the sensitive shell of Geralt’s ear. 

For once, Geralt could do nothing but obey. He did manage to grab and direct his dick at the last minute to shoot his cum all across Emhyr’s leather-covered torso. The emperor’s lips thinned as if he was going to say something in rebuke, only his erection jerked, and he exploded in their overlapped hands. 

Emhyr’s expression was momentarily stuck between shock and dismay. 

Orgasm didn’t rid Emhyr’s face of the harsh lines, but it gentled him. So much so that he merely grunted while Geralt’s snickered at his surprised reaction. The emperor even allowed himself to lean into the Witcher’s strong form for a moment while waiting for his breaths to come down.

Geralt gave himself permission to stroke Emhyr’s hair while he was still within touching distance. The emperor’s hair was straight and coarse to the touch, almost like stroking the quills of a relaxed hedgehog. 

The Witcher thought about fate’s twists and turns that have led them to this moment. But the moment was soon broken, and Emhyr pulled away. In silence, he handed the serving cloth that came with their wine to Geralt while he cleaned himself and the splash of Geralt’s spunk on his gambeson with his handkerchief.

Geralt stood there awkwardly, but Emhyr didn’t seem that he knew what to say any more than Geralt did, so he returned to his chamber.

When sleep proved elusive that night, Geralt jerked himself off again as he tried to recall the shape and feel of another man’s dick.

* * *

A look during a meal, a phrase said in another game, now that they’ve started, they can’t seem to stop. 

Emhyr liked to keep his life neatly compartmentalized, however. 

He refused Geralt’s offer to have sex in the throne room even though the Witcher could easily smell how much the idea of Geralt servicing Emhyr while he sat on the throne aroused him. Ploughing Geralt over the table in his study was the closest thing Emhyr had let their whatever-it-is interacted with his duties as emperor.

Geralt soon became well acquainted with all the secretive nooks and crannies in the emperor’s private wing, but Emhyr never asked him to the imperial bedchamber. Emhyr’s chamberlain, who reacted to the emperor’s assignations with a breakdown that lasted only about a day, informed Geralt that no imperator in all of Nilfgaard’s history has ever deigned himself or herself to go to a lover’s bedchamber either. 

So they kept having sex, just never on a bed. 

Geralt shrugged it all off. He was a Witcher and was used to having intercourses in odd, clandestine places with whoever was willing to have him. Who was he to complain when the sex was this good.

Emhyr never smelled of fear around him. Geralt’s scars didn’t bother Emhyr, who had his own, though his were so faded that only a Witcher would have noticed them. Emhyr’s touches were always on just on the right side of rough, but they were never vicious or careless of Geralt’s continued recovery. Emhyr fucked him like he was out to conquer another kingdom as he relentlessly assaulted Geralt’s prostate, but he was never mechanical or seemed like he was thinking about someone else. 

Then there was Emhyr’s voice.

Geralt knew that the Emperor had a deep, commanding voice. What he didn’t expect was his own reaction to that voice whenever Emhyr said things into his ears. Some times it was filthy nonsenses like ‘come untouched on my cock Geralt or don’t come at all tonight’— he did. Some times it was complaints from a frustrated emperor like ‘the fools in the imperial bank are talking about interest rates again’ — inappropriate for intercourse, but Geralt didn’t mind.

It got to the point that Emhyr didn’t even have to say words, he needed to only grunt into Geralt’s ears, and the Witcher would go all a shiver.

* * *

Between the food and baths and helping the kennel master train the three wolf pups, whom Geralt named Gudgeon, Ruffe, and Huchen—the Nilfgaardians objected, but the wolves responded to Geralt’s names the best, so there was nothing anyone else could do about it — not to mention Emhyr’s surprisingly pleasant companionship and his nice dick, Geralt managed to spend two months recuperating in the palace when he could have been out of there a day after he woke up. He told himself that he was using the time to deal with the shock of finding out that Ciri is alive. But he knew that sooner or later, he would have to return to the Path.

Coincidentally, he noticed that there had been an uptick of activities inside Vizima Palace. More than usual, servants ran to and fro, carrying large chests. 

“The Emperor is planning on returning to Nilfgaard now that the peace treaty with Temeria has been finalized,” Mererid told Geralt when he asked.

Geralt figured that this was the sign he needed to leave. After all, he was _not_ going to Nilfgaard with Emhyr.

So he saddled up Roach and saw to his provisions.

Geralt meant to tell Emhyr his plan during their dinner, but Emhyr pulled him into a kiss as soon as he walked in. It was so hot that Geralt just had to push the dark-haired man against the wall, drop to his knees, and swallow Emhyr to the root. 

The emperor squeaked.

Emhyr didn’t say much after that, and Geralt couldn’t with his mouth full. He was going to miss this on the Path.

It didn’t take long before hot cum splashed down his throat.

“I’m leaving,” Geralt told Emhyr awkwardly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Emhyr blinked and was silent for a moment before he managed to gather himself. “Safe travels, Witcher,” he told Geralt, voice still a little rough.

“Safe travels, Your Majesty,” Geralt wished back.

And then, he left.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have the patience to play Gwent in the game so I have no idea how it works. Geralt and Emhyr's play Go because it is super strategic and more complicated than chess. 
> 
> Gosh, I hope the sex scene was alright. First time writing this pairing so I'm still trying to get a handle on the characters. Feedback or suggestions please ;D
> 
> Onward to the second part of this series!
> 
> Oh, I forgot to add. Geralt named the wolf pups also after fishes, like Roach :D.


End file.
